


A Grave Affair

by reona32



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Buried Alive, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 06:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20849255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reona32/pseuds/reona32
Summary: His partner gone missing, Illya rushes to find Napoleon before he ends up six feet under ... permanently.





	A Grave Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween.

Illya slammed on the brakes, tires spitting gravel, and was out of the car before it came to a complete stop. The iron gates in front of him were tall and imposing. Beyond the black bars, headstones rose from tangles of unkempt weeds. “Napoleon?” he shouted into the darkening gloom of approaching night. A yipping started up in the cemetery in response to his call; foxes that had made their home among the crypts and graves. “Napoleon?” Illya listened for an answer but cursed as he heard nothing. He hurried back to the car and flung open the trunk. He pulled a flashlight from the supplies kept there and then shouldered the gates to the cemetery open.

Illya darted between headstones as he called for his missing partner, hoping for any sign of the brunet. The last of the light faded from the sky but Illya could find nothing. His communicator warbled in his jacket pocket, making him jerk in surprise. He fished the device out. “Kuryakin,” he greeted, his voice calm despite his racing heart.

“Any sign of him, Mr. Kuryakin?” asked Mr. Waverly’s gruff voice.

Illya swallowed, his mouth dry. “No, sir. I’ve reached the cemetery the message indicated but I see no sign of Napoleon.”

“Keep looking, Mr. Kuryakin. Agents from the nearest satellite office are headed your way and we’ve notified the local hospital. They should be sending an ambulance to your location.”

“Understood, sir.” The connection cut without another word and Illya shoved the pen like device back into his pocket. “Napoleon?” he called again. A weeping angel leered down at him from a mausoleum. The tall grass rustled as an animal passed by. Illya swung the flashlight beam around, quickly making his way through rows of headstones. An owl hooted from a tree and Illya felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “Napoleon?” the blond shouted. “Can you hear me?” The dread that had been welling inside Illya’s chest ever since he’d learned Napoleon had been taken by Thrush threatened to choke him. The taunting message they had received a few hours later informing them where they could find the missing agent had not helped. “Napoleon?” Illya called desperately.

Illya rounded a tall tomb and felt his heart almost stop. A freshly dug grave was in front of him; a crude wooden cross held together with rough twine leaning drunkenly, mockingly, at the top. He rushed forward and fell to his knees, sinking his arms into the loose soil and digging as quickly as he could. “No no no. Please no,” he muttered, a prayer. It was perhaps two feet before his hands hit something hard and Illya was pushing dirt aside to reveal the casket. He heaved on the lid and it opened with a protesting groan. Napoleon lay unmoving in the silken interior, skin pale and a blue tint to his lips. The cloth on the underside of the lid was shredded and Illya saw Napoleon’s fingernails were torn and bloodied. “Napoleon,” Illya moaned, reaching in to touch a cold cheek. Despair trickled like ice through his veins. A sob caught in his throat as Illya hauled his partner’s limp body from the box.

Illya shifted to cradle Napoleon in his arms, stroking the dark hair as tears welled in his eyes. The tiny exhale against the sensitive skin of his wrist sent his heart jumping. He fumbled at the other man’s neck and found a weak pulse. He hurried to lay Napoleon flat and pinched his nose shut as he breathed into his mouth. Illya watched Napoleon chest rise and fall and let out a soft cry of triumph as Napoleon coughed a little.

“Agent Kuryakin?” shouted a voice in the distance.

Illya looked up and saw more headlights at the cemetery gate, along with the telltale blue and red flashes of an ambulance. He snatched up the flashlight and waved it around. “Here! We’re here!” he called. They were soon surrounded by agents and paramedics and Illya reluctantly moved aside so they could tend to his partner. He trotted after the gurney as they made their way through the cemetery to the ambulance. The headstones and graves were now lit brightly by numerous lanterns and flashlights, banishing the eerie atmosphere.

An EMT tried to stop Illya from getting into the ambulance with his partner and the blond very nearly flipped the man over his shoulder to get him out of way. “Let him in, Larry,” barked an older medic. Illya slipped past the man who tried to stop him and wedged himself in the corner out of the way. The medic that had allowed him in ripped open Napoleon’s shit and bent over the brunet with a stethoscope. Illya winced; Napoleon would be very unhappy when he woke up learn his favorite shirt had been ruined.

**…**

If he ever woke up, that was. Illya shifted on the uncomfortable chair he was sitting on. He had stuck close to his partner as Napoleon was taken to the local hospital, stabilized, and then transferred to the medical facilities at Uncle NYC Headquarters in the morning. Not once had he regained consciousness. The doctors were not sure he would or what damage would be there if he did. “Depending on the amount of time he was oxygen deprived in the casket,” explained Dr. Kelley, “there could be extensive brain damage. We have no way to know until he wakes up.” The doctor’s tone did not inspire hopefulness.

Illys felt as if it had been his breath that had been stolen. He leaned forward and slipped his hand around Napoleon’s nearest, careful of the bandages that covered his fingers. Out of sight from any wandering nurse, he circled his thumb softly on the underside of Napoleon’s wrist; something he knew the brunet found very soothing. An IV ran from his other hand, supplying just fluids, Illya was assured, and a breathing mask covered Napoleon’s mouth and nose. The breathing mask was another precaution, to make sure there was no strain on the brunet’s system. There was some color to Napoleon’s cheeks now but his eyes still looked bruised.

Illya sighed and pressed a quick kiss to the back of the hand he held. “I’m sorry I was not quicker in finding you, my friend,” Illya whispered softly. “I came as fast as I could.” His thumb continued its stroking, hoping that somehow his partner knew he was not alone. He sat for as long as he could before duty made him leave and even then, after the reports were done and the meetings over with, he came right back to sit with Napoleon.

As such, he was there that evening when Napoleon slowly opened his eyes. Illya leaned forward and watched the brown eyes blurrily scan across the ceiling, a frown on his face. “Napoleon? Solnyshko?” Illya heart leapt as Napoleon turned his head toward him and sluggishly blinked. “Privet, lyubov' moy,” Illya murmured. He was rewarded with a tiny quirk of lips before Napoleon’s eyes slid closed and he relaxed back into sleep. Illya pressed a kiss to Napoleon’s forehead and settled back in the chair.

Twice more Napoleon woke, looked around a little, and then fell back asleep during the evening. The doctors were optimistic but still cautioned that they wouldn’t know for sure what condition Napoleon was in until they could get him to talk. Illya resisted their efforts to get him to go home for the night, stubbornly staying by his partner’s side. He eventually fell asleep himself around 11 o’clock, slumped awkwardly in the chair. A day of searching for his partner and a day of mindless office work had left the Russian exhausted.

Light touches to his cheek and hair woke him some time later. He opened his eyes and looked up, a smile curling his lips. Napoleon was softly petting him with the back of his bandaged fingers. Brown eyes connected with blue and lit with happiness. “Hello, love,” croaked Napoleon.

“Hello,” Illya echoed softly. He slid his hand over Napoleon’s and rubbed his wrist. “How are you feeling?”

Napoleon gave a delicate shudder. “Beat up. Tired,” he replied laboriously. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I was caught unaware. Thrush never would have…”

“Hush. It is not your fault. I am sorry I was not faster to rescue you.”

Napoleon shook his head slowly. “I’m fine. You got there in time.”

Illya ducked his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Napoleon’s hand. The pair sat together quietly for a long moment before Illya stood. “I shall get the doctor.”

Napoleon’s nose wrinkled. “Oh joy,” he muttered. Illya smiled.

The doctors came and ushered Illya out into the hallway. The Russian stood stubbornly at the door as they asked his partner question after question. Napoleon admitted to a headache and some pain from bruises he got fighting his captors. He said his hands ached but were bearable. They ran through the date, his name, and standard facts to check his mental state. Illya waited and listened. His friend was awake and seemed fine and every response Napoleon made correctly calmed Illya further. He could also hear Napoleon’s patience and energy flagging, irritation creeping into the brunet's voice.

Thankfully, Mr. Waverly arrived before Napoleon lost his temper. “Good evening, gentlemen,” the elderly man said, walking in. Everyone's attention shifted to him. “Mr. Solo, you are looking a little worse for wear. How are you feeling?”

Napoleon sat a little straighter on the bed. “A little beat up, sir, but otherwise ok.” Illya folded his arms across his chest and glared over Mr. Waverly's shoulder. 'A little beat up' was the understatement of the year.

“Good, good.” Mr. Waverly's eyes cut over to the doctors. “And there seems to be no lingering ill effects due to Mr. Solo's little graveyard adventure?”

The lead doctor, a salt and pepper haired gentlemen with eyes such a pale blue they looked almost colorless, stepped forward. “It appears that Mr. Solo has come through his ordeal with minimal injuries.” Behind them, Illya saw Napoleon give another slight shudder. “The worst are his hands. We had to remove some broken fingernails and apply a couple of sutures but they should heal given time. If he keeps the bandages on and the use of his hands to a minimum,” Doctor Hayes added, looking sharply at Napoleon. He attempted to look innocent but the doctor merely glared harder.

“I'm sure Mr. Solo shall follow your advice and allow his hands the time they need to heal,” Mr. Waverly said mildly.

“Of course, sir,” Napoleon agreed cheerfully.

“Hmm. Very well. I expect a report from you by noon tomorrow. Have one of the secretaries type it up for you. For now, get some more rest, Mr. Solo.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Mr. Waverly nodded and turned to leave. His sharp gaze landed on Illya. “Go home, Mr. Kuryakin. There is nothing else for you to do here today. You may see your partner again tomorrow.”

It was on the tip of Illya's tongue to argue but he reigned himself in and nodded. “Yes, sir.” The doctors and nurses trooped out after Mr. Waverly and then the partners were alone together again. Illya closed the door and walked to the bed, knowing he did not have much time before some curious nurse entered. Napoleon tilted his head up as Illya leaned down, one hand cupping the brunet's cheek. The kiss was quick, light, and very unsatisfying but Illya made himself step back. “Will you be alright?” the blond asked softly. Despite Mr. Waverly's order, he would park himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair until doomsday if his partner wanted him to.

Napoleon smiled. “I'll be fine, Illya. Go home. I can see how tired you are. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Da. I'll see you tomorrow,” Illya echoed. He crossed the room and opened the door to find a nurse with a food tray just reaching for the doorknob. “Excuse me,” he said to her surprised squeak and slid past her.

“Ah, Natalie, my sweet. What goodies did you bring me?” Napoleon’s voice asked brightly behind him as Illya headed away down the hall.

Illya stopped at a deli for a sandwich before going home. He ate, showered, and then flopped into bed to sleep. He didn't let himself think about how quiet the apartment was without his partner or how empty the bed seemed without its other usual occupant. Instead he forced himself to sleep and woke 5 hours later. The blond made himself some slightly stale toast with jam for breakfast, dressed, and headed into Headquarters in the early hours of the morning.

Illya headed down to medical, giving a nod to the sleepy looking pair of nurses making rounds, and peeked in on his partner. Napoleon was asleep. The dark sunken quality to his eyes had faded, although his right cheek was multicolored with a bruise. The lone fluorescent light on over the bed didn't do his pallor any favors but the even, calm breathing assured Illya that the brunet was as fine as he could be at the moment. Illya headed up to their shared office to handle paperwork and other aspects of Section II.

Around lunch, Illya went to the commissary and purchased a brownie. He then went down to a busier medical than he'd seen at near dawn, finding a secretary just leaving Napoleon’s room with a typewriter on a little wheelie cart. “Illya!” beckoned Napoleon as he caught sight of the blond through the door. Awake, brown eyes sparkling, the brunet looked much better. “I was wondering where you were. I just finished my report and the doctors say I can go home tonight.”

“That’s good, Napoleon. How are you feeling?”

“Honestly, I'm fine. My fingers itch a little and it's a pain in the butt remembering not to use them but I feel ok.” He noticed the napkin the blond was carrying and cocked his head. “What's that?”

Illya smiled. “I brought you a little something.” He pulled the lap tray around and placed the napkin down, unwrapping the brownie.

Napoleon’s eyes lit up. “Chocolate. Aw, you shouldn't have.” He glanced at the door and then snatched up Illya's tie, pulling him down for quick smooch on his lips. “Share it with me?” Napoleon asked, releasing the tie. Illya nodded, never one to turn down a dessert. Napoleon took the plastic knife from his lunch and cut the brownie in half, careful not to put pressure on his fingertips. He gave a happy little sigh as he bit into his portion. “That hit the spot. Thank you, Illya.”

“You’re welcome. Shall I come pick you up this evening?”

Napoleon nodded. “The doctors should spring me around six. Thai for dinner?”

“The usual?”

“Of course.”

“I would like that. Rest well, Napoleon.”

“Of course.” Illya rolled his eyes, not quite able to keep his fond smile under control, and left.

Illya finished out his day; writing reports, reading and signing off on reports, attending meetings, and running a hand to hand defense class that did wonders for the tension and anxiety that would just not go away even after 48 hours. Honestly, he hadn’t meant to break Agent Raines’ thumb. He’d send him a fruit basket or something. The Russian showed up at Napoleon’s room at promptly six o’clock to find a nurse helping his friend pull on a gray sweater. Napoleon grinned in greeting. “Hey, Illya. Right on time.” The nurse pouted as she lost the brunet’s attention and left the room with a sour glance at Illya.

Illya returned the gaze coolly and, when she was gone, went to kneel in front of Napoleon to slip his shoes on, a task the nurse had neglected. “Are you ready to go home?” he asked.

“Am I ever! There is nothing better than your own bed to sleep in.” Napoleon leered at the blond and Illya rolled his eyes. The Russian collected the pain medication and antibiotic pills Napoleon had to take, to keep his fingers from getting infected, and ushered the brunet down to the car. It was not long before Napoleon was dozing in the passenger seat as Illya navigated through the busy New York streets to their apartment. Napoleon yawned and rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist as they rode the elevator up to their floor and Illya unlocked the door and keyed the alarm code in. Napoleon drifted to the sofa and plopped down drowsily.

Illya chuckled. He went to the phone and called their favorite place, placing their usual order. Then he went to the bar and poured both of them a drink. Napoleon tipped to the side and leaned against Illya as the blond sat down, accepting his drink with a murmur. Dinner was a quiet event. Napoleon was tired and fading fast and Illya was simply enjoying having his partner and lover close and safe after a stressful situation. “Do you want to go to bed?” Illya asked when the cartons of noodles and crispy pork were empty and the pair was nibbling on almond cookies.

“I want a shower,” Napoleon said instead.

Illya mulled the idea over but quickly gave in to Napoleon’s pleading look. “Alright,” the blond said. Napoleon smiled happily. He was less happy as Illya placed plastic bags over his hands and taped them down. “Do not pout,” scolded Illya. “You know you can’t get the bandages wet.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” retorted Napoleon sourly.

“You don’t have to have a shower right now, you know.”

Napoleon glared but the stubborn scowl quickly collapsed. “No. I want a shower. I…” He shifted uncomfortably and looked away. “I smell like dirt,” he muttered to the tile.

Illya’s face softened and he cupped Napoleon’s chin, turning his head to kiss his cheek lightly. “You do not.” Napoleon’s lips quirked wryly. Knowing that did not stop the phantom smell from invading his nose. Illya started the water to let it heat and then helped the other man into the tub. Joining him, Illya gently pushed Napoleon under the warm shower spray.

Bathing each other was a familiar task they had to preform frequently when one partner was injured. Napoleon bent his head so Illya could more easily wash his hair and stood calmly as a soapy cloth was run over his body. Illya frowned as he found more bruises on Napoleon's body, dark splotches on knees and elbows. Injuries gained inside the casket, no doubt. Illya was extra gentle as he washed those areas. It did not take long before Napoleon was yawning and swaying on his feet. Even two days later he was still exhausted by his ordeal. Illya washed himself quickly and rinsed them both off before helping Napoleon out of the tub and into a fluffy towel.

Illya grabbed himself a towel while Napoleon peeled the tape off his wrists with his teeth, wincing at the pull. “Impatient,” scolded Illya lightly. Napoleon shrugged with a small smile and, free from the plastic bags, gingerly dried himself. It was awkward avoiding putting pressure on his fingertips but he persisted. Illya huffed and tossed another towel over Napoleon’s head, rubbing his hair dry. Illya quickly pulled on a pair of sleep pants and then they fumbled a pair of pajamas onto Napoleon. Illya pulled down the blanket on the bed and gestured to the clean white sheets.

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow. “Are you going to tuck me in too?” he asked, ruining his question with a huge yawn.

Illya smiled. “Go to sleep, dushka. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“Bossy,” complained Napoleon, even as he lay down and Illya pulled the blanket over him.

“Someone needs to take care of you,” muttered the Russian. “Who knows what would happen to you without me?”

“I shudder to even think.”

“Sleep, lyubov moy. I will join you shortly,” ordered Illya, leaning in to softly kiss Napoleon.

“Hmm. Night.”

Napoleon’s eyes closed and Illya quietly left the bedroom. He tidied the kitchen and tossed the empty cartons from dinner into the trash. Prowling the apartment, Illya checked locks and the security system before he was satisfied that he and his partner were secure. He turned off the lights one by one until only the bedroom lamp remained lit. The bed was soft and warmed by Napoleon’s body and Illya carefully slid under the blanket. Napoleon’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “Shhh, it’s just me,” soothed Illya, lying down. He pulled the blanket back over his partner’s shoulder as Napoleon nestled close and reached out to turn off the light, plunging the bedroom into darkness.

Immediately, Illya turned the lamp back on. “Napoleon!” he cried, grabbing his shoulders. The dark haired man was ridged, eyes open wide but unseeing. Panic had immobilized him and Napoleon wasn’t breathing. Illya shook him hard. “Napoleon, breathe. Now!” snapped the Russian, voice harsh with alarm. Napoleon was startled into gasping. Unfrozen, Napoleon panted, beginning to tremble like a leaf in the wind. Illya gathered him in his arms. He muttered soothing nonsense, in both English and Russian, in his partner’s ear. He could feel the other man’s heart rabbiting in his chest. Illya rocked and gently ran his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, waiting for him to calm down.

It took some minutes until Napoleon was lying quietly again, intermittent shivers the only lingering sign of his distress. Illya tucked the blanket up around his shoulders and slipped from the bed. He returned with a cup of water from the bathroom and helped his partner sit up to sip the cool liquid. Illya thumbed away errant wetness from Napoleon's face. “Better?” the Russian murmured.

Napoleon nodded slightly. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “I... It's just...”

“Hush. You do not need to apologize or explain yourself. I understand.” Illya stroked his mussed hair and set the empty cup aside. “Wait here.” The blond left the bedroom and a light turned on in the spare bedroom across the hallway. Illya reappeared and closed the door half way, so a large square of pale light shown into the bedroom. He then came over to the bed and turned off the lamp. “How is that? Bright enough?” he asked cautiously.

“I… Yes. But won’t you have trouble sleeping with a light on?” asked Napoleon.

Illya settled back into the bed and drew his partner close. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll be fine,” the blond replied as he fussed with the blankets. “Let’s get some rest.” Napoleon stared at him, his brow wrinkled, but Illya just closed his eyes firmly and relaxed. After a moment, the Russian let out an exaggerated cartoon like snore. Napoleon couldn’t help but smile in response. The brunet slid one arm across Illya’s waist and closed his eyes in the dim greyness. Eventually, he slipped into sleep. At Napoleon’s easy breathing, Illya peeked with one eye to check on him and then was able to sleep himself.

As was his habit, Illya woke a couple of minutes before 6am. Napoleon was still sleeping peacefully, the morning sun glowing behind the curtains. Slowly, Illya reached to turn off the alarm and inched from the bed. Napoleon stirred but settled back into sleep after a moment. The bruise on his face was beginning to turn green. Illya smoothed the blankets and left to shave and get dressed for the day. In the kitchen, eye on the clock, Illya set coffee to brew and then started making sandwiches, wrapping them in wax paper and putting them in the fridge.

At 7am, Illya returned to the bedroom. Napoleon had rolled over but not woken up. Illya went to the end of the bed and jiggled the mattress with his knee. A startled agent often swung first and asked questions later and it was not wise to be within striking distance. “Napoleon, dushka, time to wake up.” Napoleon grunted and turned his face into the pillows. Illya smiled fondly and pulled the curtains open, spilling bright sunlight into the room.

“Ugh. Rude,” grumbled Napoleon.

“It is time to wake up. You can't sleep all day.”

“That sounds like a challenge. I accept. I shall stay in bed and sleep all day.”

Illya tsked. “No. Up with you.”

Napoleon lifted his head and squinted at the blond. “Tell me why I love you again?”

“I'm the only one that will put up with you for more than a night.”

“Hmm. That must be it.” The brunet levered himself up and frowned down at the bandages on his fingers.

“Are you in pain?” asked Illya with concern. “Do you need a pill?”

Napoleon shook his head. “No. My fingers just itch.” He quirked a smile. “Don't they say that means they are healing?”

“That is what they say, yes.” Illya gently lifted one of Napoleon's hands and inspected the bandages. There was no discoloration from blood or the pus of infection, which pleased the blond. He brushed a kiss across Napoleon's knuckles. “Come. I will help you dress and then we can have some breakfast before I leave for work.” Illya helped his partner use the bathroom, brush his teeth, shave, and then wrap his wounds with fresh bandages.

“You are too good to me,” muttered Napoleon as Illya pulled a pair of elastic band sweatpants over his hips.

Illy shook his head. “You have done the same for me.” He helped Napoleon put on a blue polo shirt. “Do you want your shoes on?” Illya asked. Napoleon shook his head, deeming them too much trouble with his compromised hands. “Alright. What do you want for breakfast?”

“I could walk you through pancakes, if you feel up to it?” Napoleon said hopefully. Illya’s cooking skills didn’t extend much past sandwiches and tea but the brunet could have asked for beef wellington right now and Illya would probably try and make it for him.

Napoleon settled on a stool at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee that he handled carefully with the palms of his hands. “Now add the other egg and mix that in,” he instructed. Illya lightly tapped the egg on the counter and then broke it into a small bowl, checking for errant shell before adding it to the batter as Napoleon had taught him.

The Russian mixed the batter vigorously until he could no longer see any streaks of egg. “How is this?” Illya asked, tilted the bowl towards his partner.

Napoleon leaned forward and nodded. “Looks good. Is the pan hot?” Illya held his hand over the pan on the stove and nodded. “Ok. Pour a ladle-full in, count to 100, and then flip.” Soon there was a small stack of golden pancakes on a plate. Napoleon clapped lightly. “We'll make a 5 star chef out of you yet, Illya,” the brunet teased. They ate, Napoleon delicately wielding his fork and knife to cut the pancakes into bite sized pieces.

After, Illya prepared to leave for work. Uncle waited for no man and while Napoleon was on medical leave while his fingers healed, Illya was required to put in an appearance in the stately halls, as it were. The blond leaned down for a kiss as Napoleon settled on the sofa. Napoleon gave his partner a pleased smile as they parted. “I made you sandwiches for lunch. They are in the refrigerator. You will be ok by yourself?” asked Illya, a tiny bit of concern in his tone.

“I will be fine. If I need anything, I'll call on our private line, Illya. You better get going before Mr. Waverly sends someone out to find you.”

“He knows where I am,” Illya said with a shake of his head. Napoleon chuckled and then smiled as Illya pressed one more quick kiss to his cheek and escaped out the front door. Napoleon stood and relocked the door, resetting the security system. Left to his own devices, the brunet wrangled a quilt from the hall closet, collected a book from his study, and settled on the sofa to entertain himself. He napped and watched television and partook of Illya’s sandwiches during lunch. It was a very pleasant and relaxing day. Still, Napoleon was never happier than when he heard a little knock on the door and the sound of a key in the lock.

Within a couple of weeks Napoleon was back at Uncle on light duty. It was mostly administrative work, much to his displeasure. His fingers continued to heal, the fingernails slowly growing back, and he spoke with the Uncle therapist, a requirement after capture, but continued to need a light on somewhere nearby in order to relax enough to sleep. Illya did not mind. The Russian could sleep anywhere and having a faint light shining from the other side of the apartment was not enough to disturb him.

Eventually, Napoleon was cleared for regular duty and the pair were promptly sent out on a case. While out on the mission Napoleon was fine. Focusing on his job allowed him to control his fear of the dark. He wasn’t happy when he was forced to duck into a small, dark closest to avoid detection but he didn’t freeze in fear. At night, however, a light was left on while the pair slept in their hotel room or safe house.

They were in Spain when a summer storm rolled over the town they were staying in. It was a small hotel room with an even tinier bathroom and a bed that they could barely fit comfortably on. A flash of lightning and rumble of thunder woke Illya from his slumber. The room was dark, the light from the bathroom he had left on gone out as the power failed due to the storm. Wind howled outside of the window. Concerned, Illya looked down at his partner. The brunet lay loose-limbed on the bed, their legs tangled together. Napoleon stirred at the next boom of thunder. “I’m fine, love. Go back to sleep,” he mumbled, sensing the other’s gaze. Napoleon curled toward the other man and settled again.

Illya made a soft sound in response, shifting to accommodate the other man. The pair lay in the dark room, easing toward sleep. The storm raged outside and rolled away as dawn broke in the east.


End file.
